by Bobbi Smith
"Will he be long?"
"He could be. The gentleman showed up unexpectedly, but Mr. DeYoung seemed really excited to see him."
Sheri was disappointed, but she didn't allow it to show. "Of course I can wait. I'll just go upstairs for a while. If you want me, I'll be with Cathy Goellner."
"I'll send for you as soon as he's done."
"Thanks."
Sheri left the outer office and went up to the third floor to visit with her friend. She'd met Cathy Goellner on her first trip to the publishing house all those years ago. Tim DeYoung had taken her on a tour of the building, and Cathy had helped to introduce her around. They had become friends right away.
Cathy, a tall, friendly, auburn-haired woman with dark eyes and an easy smile, was one of thirty women hired by the publisher to read periodicals from across the country. Her job was to find interesting articles that might translate into exciting story lines. If she found something newsworthy, she cut out the article and gave it to her supervisor. The supervisor then chose the best ones from the variety given to him and passed those select articles on to three other women, who outlined them into ideas for novels. The story ideas were given out to the various authors, and then Mr. DeYoung took over, working with the writers on completing their manuscripts.
"Sheri! I'm so glad you're here! Mr. DeYoung said you were coming in today. You must have finished the new Buck McCade," Cathy called out from her desk when she saw her enter the room.
"I sure did." Sheri made her way to her friend's side. "And I've got him right here." She patted the package she was carrying.
"I'm looking forward to reading it."
Sheri knew her praise was sincere, for Cathy had been her biggest fan from the beginning.
"Thanks. I hope Mr. DeYoung likes it, too. What have you got in your pile that looks interesting? I think I may try something different with my next book." She noticed the stack of clippings Cathy had set aside to turn in.
"You're not going to do any more Buck books?" She looked disappointed.
"No, I think it's time for something new and exciting. In fact"Sheri lowered her voice to go on"I'm thinking about going out West to research this one. So what looks good? I want something that's going to sell as well as Seth Jones did all those years ago."
Both women smiled as they remembered the outstanding numbers the Seth Jones or A Captive of the Indians dime novel had sold. At last count, sales were near an incredible 500,000 copies. It had been a fantastic success, and Sheri needed one of her books to sell that well if her career was going to last.
"I think I may have just the thing for you! I found it this morning. The article was in a small newspaper called the Salt River Herald from somewhere out in the Arizona Territory." Cathy rifled through the clippings looking for the one she wanted.
"What's it about?"
"It seems there's a half-breed scout who goes only by the name of Brand attached to the cavalry at Fort McDowell there. The wife of a captain stationed at the fort was on her way to join her husband when her stagecoach was attacked by a band of renegade Apaches. All the men on the stage were killed, and she was taken captive. Brand tracked the band for days. He finally rescued her and returned her to her husband."
Sheri's eyes lit with an inner glow as she imagined the story she could weave about this man. He sounded perfect. "I don't suppose there was a picture of him?"
"No, I'm afraid not." Cathy finally found the sought-after article and handed it to Sheri.
"Miss St. John? Mr. DeYoung is ready for you," Joanna called out from the doorway.
"I'll be right there." She looked back at Cathy. "Can I keep this?"
"Absolutely."
They shared a conspiratorial smile, and Sheri hurried after Joanna to the reception area. Her rush seemed for nothing. Her editor had emerged from his office, but he was still deep in conversation with his visitora tall, graying, powerfully built man who was dressed like a cowboy. For a minute, Sheri thought it was a costume of some sort, but then she overheard part of their conversation.
"It's been a pleasure to meet you in person, Tex. I'm looking forward to a long and prosperous relationship with you. Carroll and Condon is thrilled to have you writing for us," Tim DeYoung was saying.
"Are you free for dinner tonight? I'd like to learn more about my new publisher."
"Of course, it would be a pleasure. Shall we say six o'clock?"
"I'II meet you here."
The two shook hands while Sheri looked on, wondering who this man could be and why Mr. DeYoung was taking him out to dinner. He had never taken her out to dinner.
When the man named Tex turned to go, he saw Sheri for the first time.
''Little lady," he said in a deep drawl as he gave her a slight nod. He disappeared out the door, putting his Stetson on as he went.
Sheri looked over at Mr. DeYoung, her expression curious. "Who was that?"
"That was Tex Bennett," he announced with pride.
"The Tex Bennett?" She was shocked. Tex Bennett was a very well known author. It startled her to learn that he was now writing for her publisher. Her original sense of unease about the future of her career grew.
"Yes, the Tex Bennett, and I just signed him on to write for us." He motioned for her to enter his office. "Come on in, and let's see what you've got.
"A few minutes later Sheri was seated across the desk from him looking him straight in the eye. The moment of truth had come. She had given him the new Buck McCade manuscript, and he'd placed it aside with little interest. Her spirits sank at his indifference, and now she knew she had to handle the situation boldly. She would not just sit there, waiting for him to tell her her writing days were over. She would take the initiative. She would seize the day.
"I realize the import of your note about the sales of Buck McCade books, and I think you're right. It's time I tried something new. I want to go out West to research my next book," she declared with passion.
"Really?" Surprise showed in Tim DeYoung's expression. This was the last thing he'd expected from someone like Sheridan St. John. She was a lady, through and through. He'd never imagined that she'd want to venture out of New York City, and that was his main problem with her writing. Her prose just didn't ring true, for she had no real-life experience. That was why he'd just added Tex to the Carroll and Condon stable of authors. He was intrigued by Miss St. John's plan, though, and wondered what she had in mind.
"Yes, and I have just the story to work on." She handed him the article about the half-breed scout and waited as he quickly looked it over. "Well? What do you think?"
"It sounds like it would make a good book, but it might be more suited to someone like Tex. Someone who knows all about the Arizona Territory and"
"I can do it," she declared assertively, cutting him off. She wasn't about to let Tex take her story idea or her job. The half-breed scout book was her project and no one else's. Brand was hers. "I'II go to Arizona and interview him myself. What do you say?"
He silently debated the idea for a moment as he reread the article and then looked up at her. "All right. The story line is yours. How soon can you get going on this?"
"Right away."
"How much time do you need to finish the manuscript?"
Sheri's mind was racing as she estimated the length of her trip out West and back. "Six months."
"Fine. I'll expect you back here in September with the manuscript. The same terms as the Buck McCade books. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
Chapter Two
Brand, The Half-Bread Scout, or Trail of the Renegade
by
Sheridan St. John
The Journey
The ride on the stagecoach through the rough Arizona Territory was not an easy one, but Rachel Anderson was smiling as she stated out the window at the passing desert scenery. Orphaned at a young age, she'd lived in a children's home until she'd been old enough to support herself as a nanny. Her life would have continued that way, for she loved children, bu
t then she'd met Carl. . . . Shortly after they'd met and she'd fallen in love with him, he had gone on to California to seek his fortune. He had just written to her asking her to come West to join him, and Rachel was on her way to Sacramento now to marry him. It was going to be her dream come true having a husband and a family. She was enjoying every minute of this trip that was taking her closer to him.
"You think we'll be there soon?" she asked Mercy Stewart, who was sitting across from her with her maid, Jenny. Mercy was the wife of a captain stationed at a fort here in the territory, and they'd become friends over the last hundred miles or so.
"Yes, my dear, we will," Mercy said with a smile of relief. Soon they would reach Fort McKenna, and she would be reunited with her beloved husband, Clark.
"I hope you're right, Miss Mercy. I don't know how much more of this I can stand," Jenny said with a grimace as the stage hit another bone-jarring rut in the road. "I don't think there's an inch of me that ain't bruised!"
"Once we reach the fort, you can rest for a week if you want."
"It may take a week to ease all that's paining me," Jenny groaned as she was the thrown roughly against the side of the stage. "But poor Miss Rachel, she's got to keep an going."
"Don't worry, Jenny. I'll be fine. Cart's waiting for me. He makes this all worthwhile." Rachel didn't care how rough the road was as long as she got to California.
Jenny smiled at Rachel. She thought her a nice lady who deserved all her happiness. They hit another bump and Jenny groaned out loud. When she'd become Mercy Lawrence's maid five years before, she had envisioned a life of comfort. After all, Mercy's father was Daniel Lawrence, a very rich man. Then, eighteen months ago, Miss Mercy had met Captain Stewart and had fallen madly in love. They'd been married in a magnificent society wedding, but after a short honeymoon, he'd been forced to return to duty, leaving his beloved wife behind. He had finally gotten quarters for them, and so here they were on their way to join him, riding in a hellish stagecoach in the middle of the most desolate landscape she'd ever seen.
"It's going to be fine, Jenny. You'll see." Mercy was gazing out the window, seemingly enraptured by the view.
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'm going to miss you both when you leave the stage," Rachel told them.
"We'll miss you, too, Maybe someday we'll meet again."
"That would be nice. Just look up Mr. and Mrs. Carl Johnson in Sacramento, and you'll find me."
"I'm so happy for you, dear. It's wonderful that all your dreams are coming true," Mercy said with heartfelt meaning.
The Apache attack on the unsuspecting stagecoach came suddenly and viciously. The Indians swooped down upon the hapless stage with murder and plunder on their minds. The sound of their war cries rent the air.
The stage driver looked back in horror to find the savages gaining on him. He could hear the screams of his passengers as he drove the horses to breakneck speed over the rugged terrain, but there was no helping it. He lashed desperately at his team, seeking to escape the blood-letting he knew was to come. . . .
"So you think I've captured the feel of the land and the essence of what we've experienced on the trip?" Sheri asked Maureen as they rode in the stagecoach on their journey to Fort McDowell.
"I thinks it's very accurate," Maureen told her. "In fact, I feel quite a bit like young Jenny myself, if you must know the truth."
Both women laughed.
"I think we both do," Sheri agreed.
She had been writing without fail every night, and Maureen had been reading her pages the following day. Maureen knew how much Sheri wanted this book to be accurate, and so she was watching the details closely.
"I hope this trip is worth it for you."
"It already has been. Look how much of the country we've seen! Some of it I couldn't have imagined even if I'd read eyewitness accounts."
"It is . . . different." Maureen was intimidated by the raw, untamed land. She was used to living in New York City. This wilderness was totally foreign to her, and she couldn't imagine why anyone would want to live out here. Cautious by nature, she never rushed headlong into anything. Yet here she was, in the middle of nowhere, accompanying Sheri on this escapade. It was amazing what her cousin could talk her into.
"I still can't believe how smoothly everything has gone," Sheri remarked. "We're almost there, and it's only been three and a half weeks since I spoke with Mr. DeYoung."
"James did a fine job making the arrangements," Maureen said, thinking how quickly their cousin James St. John, an attorney in Washington, had been able to arrange their visit to the fort. "Especially finding the Wallaces to chaperone us."
The middle-aged couple sitting across from them smiled.
"It's been our pleasure. It was fortunate that we were traveling to California and could arrange things this way. James is a dear friend, and we were glad to help," Fred Wallace said.
"And I find your reasons for coming here so interesting, my dear," Joyce Wallace told Sheri with sincerity. "It's unusual to find a woman involved in such pursuits."
"I know. Most people aren't as kind as you are."
"What do you mean?"
"There have been less than kind remarks made about my career, but I don't let any of it affect me. All I care about is my writing. That's why I'm going to the fort. I want to do research for my next novel."
"So your next novel is going to be set in Arizona?"
"Yes. There was an article in the newspaper about a scout from the fort who rescued a captain's wife from the Apaches. I found the story intriguing," she explained. "I made a few inquiries before we left New York, and we should be able to meet and spend time with him. I also plan to meet with the reporter who wrote the story for the newspaper."
"How exciting for you. What about the captain and his wife? Will you get to speak with them?"
"Unfortunately, no. He transferred out after his wife's ordeal. I'm going to base the story on the scout and possibly plan a complete series about his continuing adventures."
"You have a wonderful imagination."
Sheri gave a small laugh. "That's true enough. It's amazing how my mind works. One minute, I can be carrying on a totally logical conversation with someone, and the next, in my head, I'm a thousand miles away."
Joyce looked at her in amazement. "Your writing ability is definitely a gift."
"I just feel lucky that I've been able to use it, and I want to keep using it. That's why I'm here. I want to see, touch, and feel what I'm writing about. I want to make it as real as possible for my readers."
"And I'm sure you're going to do just that, my dear," Fred said supportively, admiring her spirit. Not only was this Sheridan St. John a pretty woman, she was educated and talented, too. A rare combination, indeed.
They had just settled into a companionable silence when the driver's sudden shout filled them with instant terror.
"Indians!"
The stagecoach gave a violent lurch that sent all the occupants slamming against the walls and each other. The bone-jarring pace changed to a frantic, desperate run.
"Did he yell Indians?" Sheri asked, giving Maureen a look of complete incredulity as she grabbed hold of the seat to hang on for dear life.
"Oh, God!" Joyce wailed, clutching at her husband.
The stage careened eerily on two wheels as the driver took a sharp turn on his race toward the town that was still some three miles ahead.
"I can't believe this!" Maureen muttered, her teeth gritted against the pain of being thrown physically about. "We're living your story!"
"I hope not!" Sheri returned, thinking of how her stage attack was going to end.
Desperate to see what was going on, Sheri managed to stick her head partially out the window to get a look around. A frisson of fear shot down her spine as she caught sight of thema group of warriors atop a rise in the distance. It was the first time she'd ever seen Indian warriors. They looked forbidding and dangerous and deadly. Sheri went pale, and she jerked her head back
inside. She had never thought her escapades would actually be dangerous. She had come West to further her career, not to end it by being killed.
Suddenly, the murder and mayhem she'd been writing about all these years struck another chord within her. Real people were fighting and dying out here. Not just cardboard figures she made up in her head and wrote about. Distantly, she wondered if that was part of what Mr. DeYoung had been talking about when he'd told her her writing had lacked authenticity. She suppressed a shudder. She had wanted to do research, but there were limits to what she wanted to experience firsthand.
Sheri had never before been really terrified. She'd been afraid and uncertain when her parents died, but that was nothing compared to the stark horror of knowing death could be imminent.
Will Sparks, the driver, cast a worried glance back over his shoulder to find that the warriors were giving chase. He leaned low and whipped the horses again and again. He'd heard talk of what the Apache did to captives, and he had no desire to find out if the tales were true.
Desperately, frantically, he drove on. Phoenix was just a few miles ahead, and he prayed that they would make it. The stage rocked wildly beneath him. Several times he feared that they were going to overturn, but somehow, each time, the stage righted itself. He concentrated only on his goalreaching town. He tried not to think about the death-dealing redskins who, he had no doubt, were gaining on them. Safety lay just ahead. If only he could get theme! His arms ached from controlling the team. Sweat poured from him, yet he struggled on.
Will never knew how he managed to make it into Phoenix without being killed. As they finally reached the outskirts of town, he nearly collapsed in relief, only to have his horror return full-force when he glanced back one last time to find that the Indians were still behind him. Only then did he realize that they weren't shooting, but were slowing their frenetic pace, too. He finally reined in and watched cautiously as one man separated himself from the Indians and rode toward them.
"Are you all right?" the man asked Will. "We saw the way the stage was running and thought renegades were chasing you."
